


Men Like Us

by toastpiercer



Category: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:03:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastpiercer/pseuds/toastpiercer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Time to wake up, Watson."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men Like Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zaganthi (Caffiends)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/gifts).



It is past midnight in the April of 1895, and a low, warm breath in his ear awakens him.

_"Time to wake up, Watson." _

Watson's eyes creak open.

Holmes is flitting about the room like a manic bird, pulling clothes from the wardrobe and throwing them carelessly into the open trunks littering the bed, the floor. One of Holmes' stockings tangles with one of his, and the unexpected intimacy makes Watson smile. A small thing, and rare, welcome proof that half of Watson's life is not a dream.

Then, Watson's blood runs cold, as it often has in these days, and he grows anxious and glad that from his place on the bed he can see to the top of the stairs, could see if anyone was coming.

Even this is damning evidence.

"Our good friend, Inspector Lestrade, who, I might mention, has proven himself tonight to be a very good friend to us indeed, has warned me of an arrest that is almost certainly to take place before the week is out, and as such I felt it would be prudent for us to take an unexpected holiday. For our health, you know," Holmes nods. Watson watches his long, elegant hands snap the bright buckles of a trunk in place. "I'm afraid both of our poor nerves are quite shattered from that recent business with the admirable Miss Smith."

"I'm afraid things are about to become very difficult for us," he says, drawing his pale lips tighter, tighter. His knuckles whiten around the handle of the trunk, and for the first time, Watson notices that Holmes is trembling.

Watson reaches across the bed and squeezes his hand.

\--

"I do wish you would explain what is going on," Watson grouses, loading Holmes' trunk into the compartment. "And that you hadn't decided upon packing stones for our holiday in the country."

Holmes smiles indulgently, slipping into the compartment with catlike grace. "My dear fellow, the trunk merely contains a selection of that chemistry equipment which may prove most essential to any little problems we may be called upon to solve while we are away. I can assure you that I have packed the barest of essentials."

Watson rolls his eyes and rubs the soreness out of his lower back. "I see. So we plan on taking on cases while we are away, then?"

Looking up at his friend from underneath his heavy lids, Holmes chuckles quietly. "The choice is between my work and idleness, and I was under the impression that you were greatly adverse to my choice of pursuits whilst in idleness."

The train begins to creep along slowly, and Holmes rests his head against the window and watches as the station blurs out of focus around them. "Besides, it is doubtless we will be able to locate some little problem upon which I can occupy my time," he smiles, jostling his companion slightly with his elbow.

The corners of Watson's mustache twitch upwards despite himself. "I say though, Holmes, you didn't bring along any of that vile…"

"No, no, no," Holmes interrupts, banishing the concerns with an artful wave of his hand. "Don't fret so, Watson. As I said, I have every intention of not needing it during our sojourn."

Watson smiles, his worries content. He is familiar with this role, with following his friend into darkness and doubt and uncertainty. On to another adventure.

Down the rabbit hole.

\--

They ride for a while, and Watson's questions build up inside of him, stretching taut in the silence between them.

"I do wish you would tell me, Holmes, how long will we be gone?" Watson asks, finally, leaning forward in his seat to look at Holmes directly.

Holmes sighs and turns his face from the window, his apology soft in his eyes. "Honestly, my dear boy, I only wish I could tell you."

Smiling again, he pats the seat cushion next to him, beckoning his companion over. Reluctantly, Watson stirs and moves from his place, settling in beside his friend.

"Try to sleep a while, my dear," Holmes whispers, resting his cheek against Watson's broad, solid shoulders. "And know that I am sorry, I am so very sorry for having knocked you up so early, and for not explaining our situation properly. I can assure you, however, that you will learn in time enough, and that you will rather wish you hadn't heard once you have.

"It's an ugly business, my friend," he says, sighing as though the weight of the world were on his shoulders. "I should prefer that you remain as far from it as possible. I should prefer that you remain as far as possible from all the ugliness in this world.

"Of course, you would never be happy that way, and I'm afraid I am entirely without tolerance for your unhappiness. You are, my dear, dear boy, of the very best specimen of a man, the kind who is driven to help not only his own self and those he loves, but the whole of mankind. Men such as you fancy yourselves the heroes of all creation."

Holmes smiles and kisses Watson's cheek. "And I dare say, my dear fellow, that you are right," he whispers, squeezing his friend's arm in gentle affection.

Watson hears almost none of this, however. He has fallen asleep.

\--

The train jostles again, and Watson stirs against Holmes' side in discomfort.

In a few days time, he will pick up the paper and learn that Oscar Wilde has been arrested for crimes against nature, and that his arrest has poisoned the city for men like them for months and maybe years to come. Holmes will again creak out a tense, thin-lipped smile, and thank what powers there are for the good friend they have found in Inspector Lestrade.

But for now, Watson is asleep, his head slumped contentedly, if not quite comfortably, against his companion's shoulder.

He dreams of July 16, 1881, of a muggy Saturday afternoon.

A young man still, nerves shattered, nostrils filled with the sterile scent of chemicals, he is meeting the greatest friend he will ever have.


End file.
